In this house, we lived, and we died…the two of us, we traversed these halls with our feet, gracing the bookshelves with our fingertips; we serenaded the sun through each passing season. Together, you and I, a seamless attraction whirling around with no visible center. Why would this wall, this invisible piece of injustice dare divide us now…why now when all we’ve ever done is neglect time itself?
There couldn’t be a verb, an adjective, a noun, a pronoun profound enough to literarily liberate the emotion, the feeling, the thought and power felt below my feet as I turned onto that forested bypass, leaving the city and suburbs of my post-adolescence behind. It was freedom without a flag, pestilence without a cure; both likewise and subverted. And in lighting the spliff held gingerly between my aged, wrinkled and dilapidated lips, my destiny was prolonged only for the better. If the night were thicker, I might cast myself into an ocean of doubt. If my headlights were any dimmer I might exalt myself under the most rude of Kings. It seemed that the only obstacle on the start of my journey was merely the wind; backward and pressing it was, as the Autumn always presumed it to be. And I felt as though I might be a kite without a string, a hook without bait; yes, the only deceit at my fingertips being the dirt beneath their fingernails. This journey of mine, wherever it took me, would be my last…
As I hold this glass close to my heart, the condensation soaks through this mosaic-kissed tundra my fingerprints masquerade behind, just as your stare once delved its way deep into the void where my soul once subsisted. The setting sun, if it could be labeled as such, reminds me this is only one end and only one beginning; a sequence not unfamiliar to myself nor you and yet a flavor of a taste I’d soon rather forget. There won’t be a return to be had, a turn-around or a way back once I raise this glass; this one final toast I dedicate to the years you’ve been a friend to me, and a lover to the years and years in tow following soon after.
“As a counselor of the weather behind these eyes,
as an emotion-gambling tempest to elude,
you’ve given me naught but a star to wish upon,
naught but a train to chase,
naught but a whisper to ascend and eternally a fear to face…..”
Here’s to one final flight, one last ascension, a rebellious apotheosis;
for the one thing a new year never brings is the promise of a lie and the forgiveness of those not who have fallen, but have been taken. This is not as selfish as an oath made between the faithful, nor as colorless as a promise kept between friends; no…this is the only purpose I am suitable for, this is the only ultimatum these tears can touch. When we meet again, this terrible form I have become will be like that of glass, and you will see that I can do more than merely aspire to transcend above this mortal coil. Until then, may the dreams you exist within find their way swiftly into this kinesthetically-cursed desolation that I have subconsciously sewn in your absence.
In This House, We Lived, and We Died, is a story about a man, aged and lost, in mind, body, and spirit, whose last quest takes him into the deepest abysses, across the sharpest precipices, and through the darkest abscesses of his soul so that he may collect the shattered and sunken remains of his all-but vanquished memory. A sort of Spiritual Epic in the same way “What Dreams May Come” inspires to alter life dispositions, and in the same way “Fight Club” aspires to inspire with violent psychological psithurism, “In This House, We Lived, and We Died” aims to break all the rules of the literary journey and set a new tone for the world of imagination.
Release Date: Late 2013